The Path to Redemption
by Ellcrys
Summary: Guilt drives Hardin to return to the one place he never wanted to see again, in hopes of redeeming himself from past sins but redemption sometimes comes in ways other than one expects.


* * *

**Disclaimer:** As much as I wish I owned my dear John Hardin, I don't. (Yet.) VS characters copyrighted to Square, and are used without permission because I love them too much. 

**Notes:** Insomnia usually makes me write VS scenes. Though I fear that lately I'm overstepping my quota for biblical references in fanfic. (Maybe I should move to Xenogears fandom.) Anyway... shockingly, not necessarily slash, unless you look hard - mostly just action and introspection. 

* * *

**The Path to Redemption**

It was strange, how stepping back into the dim stone chamber at the end of the long, dark stairwell didn't seem to affect him at all. The sounds of cursing and half-mad muttering, the smells of rust and greasy smoke from the flickering torches, of unwashed bodies and human waste - it all remained familiar to him, even after many months. The jingle of the keys on the ring that was the hope of salvation for so many who had entered this place, that was familiar too, as the lone prison guard turned in surprise to meet him. He recognized the man as well, though he had never learned his name - a short, heavyset man in his middle years, with a thick moustache, a lazy work ethic, and a tendancy to kick at any hands that dared to grasp the iron bars of the cells he watched over. 

Also familiar was the motion of Hardin's sword as he brought it up to slice across the guard's throat before he could so much as raise his arm; he'd done exactly this many times before. It had been one of the most pleasurable parts of the recurring dreams he'd had both sleeping and waking, though now it had become just a part of the routine. Sometimes it had been this guard specifically. The gurgling sounds as blood filled the guard's lungs and he sank helplessly to the floor, those were almost exactly as Hardin had imagined as well. 

There was a difference, though, between the dreams and the reality. As Hardin wiped the blood from his blade, looking around cautiously for any sign that they might have added a second guard to this shift, another man stepped out of the stairwell and into the prison. He took a glance around as well, but cool grey eyes showed nothing of dismay or surprise at the wretched setting he'd found himself in. It did not seem right to Hardin that he should be in this place. He'd never been a part of the dreams, and his pale, clean countenance looked incongruous with the filthy surroundings; he very nearly seemed to glow. 

The cool eyes fixed on him for a moment, almost smirking, before turning away. 

Wanting nothing more than to get it over with, Hardin knelt at the side of the guard he'd killed and turned him onto his back. Before he'd slipped the keys from his belt, the sudden click of a lock coming undone startled him, and he turned to find Sydney standing before the first of the cells, one hand raised in a familiar gesture as the door set in the iron bars swung wide open. 

The mage turned, smiling a bit at the quiet sound of approval Hardin had uttered at the sight. "A simple spell - one I can teach you later, if you wish." 

"I would like that." The fact that he'd come back to this place in reality was beginning to sink in now, and it made his skin crawl; after time spent recovering in the open air and sunlight, where even the vivid dreams faded within a few hours, the memories of solitude and fear and mistreatment he'd acquired here were pressing into him further with each passing moment. Never again, he silently vowed. Never, and Sydney would make certain of it. 

It had been months, and he could barely recall his escape; dizzy from a combination of adrenaline and malnutrition, he'd fled like a madman, his thoughts racing until he found a suitable hiding place beneath some hedges, and spent the night shivering in the late winter's rain. In the weeks that followed, he'd sometimes wondered why he'd bothered to flee only to die of exposure, but being back inside the prison now made him remember - it would have been far better to die free than to have gone on living like this. 

And yet, when Sydney had unlocked the cell, the man inside had not burst forth immediately, dashing to his own escape. Joining Sydney beside the open door, Hardin looked between the rusted metal bars, and he only just barely recognized the man sitting in a heap, his back against the far wall. 

"...John Hardin." The prisoner's voice was tired and bitter. "You look well." 

"Piet." The man had been in his division before the incident they'd all been involved with. He had been a tall, proud man once, but now the ragged prison garb and unshaven face gave him the appearance of a beggar. 

"It's been awhile, Hardin." Piet gave a harsh, rasping chuckle. "What happened, did you forget about your old friends from the Guard?" His eyes, glittering reddish with reflected torchlight in the shadows of the cell, went to Sydney's face, lowered to look over his bare chest and slender waist. "When I saw your friend here rush in, for a moment I thought you'd brought me a pretty lady as an apology." 

"Don't mock him," Hardin growled, momentarily forgetting his pity. Piet had never been a "friend", for that matter. "This is Sydney Losstarot, high pr-" 

"Doesn't matter to me," Piet said with a shrug. "A witch, isn't he? I see his hands, I saw the locks fall away without so much as a touch. I've got naught to do with witches-" 

As Hardin began to step forward, he found a metal hand set upon his shoulder, muting his response before it came. "Calm, Hardin. His reaction could hardly be called unexpected, especially for one of the king's sheep." There was no scorn in Sydney's voice, even at the last; it was stated as a simple fact. 

"I've no loyalty to his majesty now," Piet muttered. "'Twas one of the 'king's sheep' who put me in this cell, after all." 

His eyes went very pointedly to Hardin, and Hardin swallowed his indignation at the way Piet had spoken of Sydney. That much of what the man said, at least, was true. No apology, no restitution he could offer would give Piet back more than a year of his life, spent wasting away in the cramped prison cell before him. "All I can do is offer you freedom, Piet. We have men stationed upstairs and along the way to cover our escape - it would be difficult to mistake them for the king's men. They will direct you to safety." 

Piet growled something unintelligible, but he did pull himself to his feet, muscles stiff and uncooperative after so long without use. A brief conference between Sydney and Hardin, and Hardin retrieved the keys from the dead guard, crossing the chamber to a cell on the opposite side while Sydney moved on to the cell beside Piet's. 

The man in the next cell, Dennys, bolted without a word as soon as Hardin had opened the door. A few cells down was Rowan, who had spent his time in prison keeping himself fit as well as he could in the cramped environment; he did not look so bad, aside from the shabby clothing and the grime, and he nodded his grudging appreciation for the liberation as he passed. One by one, the men who had been convicted by Hardin's testimony hobbled or shuffled or darted past him, their eyes dull or bitter or paranoid as they recognized him, whole and healthy as he'd been when they'd all worked together as soldiers in the PeaceGuard. Davir spat at him before turning to dash up the stairwell. Mattias raised his fist to strike, then lowered it again scornfully when Hardin did not make a move to defend himself. He did not feel he had the right. Sydney said nothing as he released the captives from their cells, and those who he freed kept a wide berth as they made their way upstairs. 

Finally, Hardin found himself standing before a cell which he was far too familiar with. He knew every stone in the walls, every spot of rust on the bars. Even now, standing outside, in his mind he could clearly see the view from inside, without the use of his recently acquired talent. The cell had a new occupant, and Hardin's skin crawled as he met the man's eyes, still hopeful beneath the overgrown hair and beard. 

He stood there, transfixed, until a touch to his shoulder startled him, and he dropped the keys, his hand shooting up to engage the enemy. It grasped cold metal, and his eyes met cool grey, a safe haven from the sights that had begun to overwhelm him with terror. "You are strong, Hardin," Sydney murmured, his expression firm. "Strong enough to defend your freedom. Remember this." 

Taking a deep breath, Hardin nodded slowly and released Sydney's arm. "Thank you..." He stepped back as Sydney spoke a word, and the lock upon the door fell open. The man inside laughed faintly in disbelief, murmuring his gratitude as he left the door swinging wide open and ran up the stairs, following the others. Hardin watched him go, feeling something that he couldn't quite put a name to. 

The click of another lock falling open brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Sydney releasing another prisoner. This was not one of those who had been with the PeaceGuard, however, and Hardin shook his head. "Sydney - that one is a thief." 

Sydney looked back at him, not the slightest bit fazed. "What do the king's men call me?" he asked simply, opening the door to let the man out. "Go now," he told the prisoner, who looked as if he weren't certain that what he was witnessing was the truth. "We've cleared the way - you may go where you please." 

Before the man had gone, Sydney was moving on to the next cell, and Hardin began to protest again - worse than a thief, the man in that cell was a murderer, who had been there longer than he had. He never gave voice to that protest, however, for Sydney broke in as the words were forming in his mind; "And what would they call you?" he asked, his eyes going to the body of the guard, limp upon the floor. 

Hardin stood back, his head lowered in reluctant acknowledgement, as the man he'd known only as a murderer fled up the stairs, his eyes filled with tears of relief. After a moment, Hardin picked up the keys he had dropped before, and went to assist Sydney in unlocking the remaining cells. 

He'd killed more than one of the king's men when he'd escaped, he reminded himself, and since then, he'd killed the cardinal's as well. Whatever label had been placed on these prisoners by the law, he had likely been labelled the same or worse. Thieves, murderers, rebels - in the eyes of the state, these were his kindred that he was freeing. 

When the cells were all empty, and only he and Sydney remained in the dim dungeon, his eyes returned to the cell he'd once occupied, and lingered there. Sydney obliged him with the moment of reflection, coming to his side. "You will never have to see this place again," he said softly. 

Hardin shook his head. "No... I shall see it for the rest of my life." 

And he would return. There were no prisoners left in their cells at the moment, but the arrests would continue, and someday the cells would be occupied again. He looked to Sydney, who met his eyes and nodded, understanding. 

For this night, however, the mission was nearly complete, and the two of them took the path that the liberated prisoners had followed, up the stairs, gathering their brethren who had marked the way to freedom. The cold night air, when they emerged from the prison and took off running into the hills, tasted better to Hardin than the finest meal. 

Hardin had not kept track of how many they'd released, but a large group had gathered at the rendezvous point by the time they'd arrived. None of the brethren were missing, much to his relief, and at least most of the freed prisoners had followed the instructions, though Hardin suspected that a few of them had simply taken off whichever direction they pleased. It was their right, of course, and he pitied them more than envied them, considering that evading the king's men alone was more difficult than they likely expected. 

The brethren of Müllenkamp, however, had been evading the king's men for some time, and now Sydney stepped forward, his strength of presence making those who sat, resting wearily after the exertion, look up before he'd even begun to speak. "I am Sydney Losstarot, oracle and high priest of the order of Müllenkamp," he stated. Recognition dawned in the eyes of a few of the former prisoners; to some it brought fear, to others it brought scorn. Hardin tensed, preparing to act if one of them tried something foolish, even though he knew that none of them could truly hurt Sydney. 

Sydney continued, heedless. "The state has condemned us, just as it has condemned you, leaving you to die, wretched and alone. Perhaps some of you believe yourselves that their condemnation was just - perhaps you truly were guilty of the crimes they brought against you." His eyes looked down, almost imperceptibly, to meet those of the man Hardin had stated was a murderer; the man's eyes shone with anxiety. "But we who follow the Lady do not believe that anyone is beyond redemption. The gods understand circumstance, they understand desperation. Mortal man is a weak creature, prey to many forces he cannot understand, and he flees from them. 

"We do not take prisoners, nor do we ask that you turn to our faith at once," he continued, "but we do offer you fellowship and safe haven. The king's men and the cardinal's, both hunt us - but there is strength in numbers, and in the gods, which have helped us to come this far - even into the prison which held you until this night. Your safety will be as ours if you choose to stay with us; if you choose to part ways, preferring to take charge of your own well-being, you are free to do so at any time, including now." 

He fell silent, waiting for the inevitable response. It was Davir who spoke first, addressing Hardin rather than Sydney. "So, Hardin - first you put us in prison, and then you release us only to add us to your band of cultists?" 

"I said before I'll have naught to do with witches," Piet spoke up from beside him. 

"It was not that for which I freed you," Hardin told them, his voice quiet and humble. "I came back to set right what I could for those I had wronged." 

"We are outlaws now - our lives are forfeit no matter where we go," Davir said hotly. "We cannot work, we cannot settle - what difference does it make to free us now?" 

"We might as well rot in prison, where at least we were warm and fed and safe," Mattias agreed, and a few others murmured their agreement. 

"As Sydney said, you are free to take refuge with us," Hardin repeated. 

"And will you sell us out to the king's men again, should they capture you?" Mattias sneered. 

Piet shook his head. "Better to die alone than to be found and killed with the witches." 

Hardin almost wanted to strike the man - how dare he speak of Sydney that way? - but his guilt and his propriety held him back. Instead, he looked with strained eyes to Sydney, who appeared not at all insulted by their rejection of his offer. "If you do not trust us," he said softly, "then you should go. Take care to avoid the main roads, and I would suggest that you change your appearance, as well as devise a false name and past. If you have a family to return to, it may be best to wait just a bit longer, as it will be the first place they'll seek after you." 

"Common sense," Davir growled, getting to his feet. "If you're a seer as you say, perhaps you should tell us something useful." 

Hardin clenched his fists, but Sydney spoke first. "Very well - Larissa has turned from you, and will side with the law if you go to her. Stay away, if you value your freedom." 

Davir's eyes widened, and beside him, Piet scowled. "My Larissa would never!" Davir exclaimed, taking a step towards Sydney furiously. 

"Aye - he's only trying to frighten you into joining his band," Mattias agreed. "Don't let it fool you, Davir. We'll go now." 

"Before he tries any more of his witchcraft on us," Piet agreed. "Don't look at his eyes..." 

Hardin remained furious and frustrated, but silent, as his three former comrades turned away to leave. They were only the first - a few others among the freed prisoners rose to their feet after witnessing the exchange as well, and eyed Sydney warily as they made their way through the chill of the night in nothing but their ragged prison garments. How could they do it, Hardin wondered, as another rose to leave, and another. They could have had warmth, safety, food, clothing - they could have had the fellowship and renewal that Hardin himself had stumbled across months ago. But instead, they chose to forsake the ones who had come to grant them freedom, favoring a future of uncertainty and solitude over the hope of something better. 

"Do not be troubled," Sydney murmured, coming to stand next to him. "Perhaps their desperation was not so great as yours, or perhaps they believe they still can return to their old lives, but each has his reasons. You have paid your debt, and are not responsible for what they now choose." 

Hardin nodded slightly. He knew, logically, that he had done all he could, but it seemed a waste if they had been released only to ignore Sydney's warnings and allow themselves to be taken again, or even killed. 

"It may be that further hardships will cause them to believe in what I've told them," Sydney suggested, "should we cross paths again. And besides, look around." He gestured at those gathered in the hollow, and Hardin looked up to see that a few prisoners still remained among the brethren, allowing their wounds to be tended and the passing of waterskins. 

One was the man who had been freed from the cell in which Hardin had been kept, and his eyes shone with hope as Sydney approached, Hardin following at his subtle, wordless instruction. "My lord," the man whispered, shaking at his feet, "I prayed that whatever god might be listening would save me. I prayed long and hard - and it must have been your gods who answered me, for here I am... I will be your servant." 

Sydney smiled, resting a hand on the man's head, and he barely flinched at the touch of the strange claw. "Not servant, Fabian, but brother. We welcome you." 

"I did kill a man," confessed the one that Hardin had known as a murderer, "the husband of my sister. He beat her... she suffered a blow from his fist that left her unconscious for days, and she still hadn't woken when I fled, only to be taken by the guard. I know now that it was a mistake, repaying blood for blood..." 

Sydney answered with a nod of understanding. "It did not bring your sister back. But we cannot change the past, only the future - and it is the gods who will pass judgment upon men rather than we ourselves, who are also imperfect. You have no need to confess to me, but to meditate upon your actions so that you will not make the same sort of mistake in the future." The man murmured his appreciation as Sydney passed to speak to another. 

Someone cleared his throat behind Hardin, and he turned to find that it was Rowan, one of the PeaceGuard he had named during the inquisition. He tensed, expecting more of the harsh words he'd endured from the others, but Rowan also appeared humbled. "I named names also," he stated. "It was I who confirmed the men involved, corroborating your information - I believed them when they said they would free me. It must have taken a great deal of strength and courage to return for us, and since I cannot fault you for your actions without being made a hypocrite, I will trust your allies for now, witchcraft or no." 

Rowan extended his hand in a sign of truce, and Hardin accepted it, too grateful to reply with anything beyond a simple "Thank you," much less graceful than the wisdom Sydney spoke to those who addressed him. 

Only five remained with the brethren, out of nearly two dozen who had been freed, and Rowan was the sole man among those five from the PeaceGuard, whom it had been Hardin's original intention to liberate. Sydney did not seem bothered in the least, for he spoke in depth with each before sunrise, and left their faces lit with hope. Returning to Hardin's side, he responded to the unspoken disappointment as well. "Do not trouble yourself for those who left - their destiny is in their hands, by their own choice. Instead, be pleased that among the men we freed tonight, we have found five whom I believe to be true." 

Hardin had not even meant to free four of those five, but Sydney answered before he could point it out aloud. "Men are fickle, and seldom predictable. They hold grudges, and are willing to believe the worst when presented with it. Though no man is perfect, nor can he be, he can always strive to grow past what he has managed already." 

Hardin nodded, and Sydney gave him a small smile. "Remember this the next time you are tempted to pass over something unfamiliar, for the sake of something you believed you knew." He gestured at those who lay below the two of them in the hollow, resting in borrowed blankets and a peace of mind that none had experienced for many months. "The path to redemption can be narrow, and wind through strange places." 

Hardin knew that peace of mind all too well, and it all had come back to him in a rush when he had exited the prison and looked up at the wide open sky, knowing that never again would he be parted from it. For the moment, looking down at the five who lay sleeping soundly, Hardin could believe that his debt might have been repaid after all, if not in the way that he had expected. 

_"For many are invited, but few are chosen." - Matthew 22:14_


End file.
